Nervous as on the night he’d stolen the emerald, Gorstag skulked through the chilly, torchlit catacombs. He had been given free run of the entire complex ever since he’d accompanied Speaker into Queen Sambryl’s castle. But the spellcasters were performing a necromantic ritual, their chanting echoing through the tunnels, and the Wearer of Purple expected everyone who wasn’t busy elsewhere to attend. It wouldn’t do for Gorstag to be caught skipping. Someone might suspect—correctly—that he was up to no good.

He’d learned a great deal during the past couple of tendays, from both Speaker himself and the cabal’s lesser officers, who assumed that if the great man had seen fit to trust him, he must be all right. Yet he still feared he didn’t know enough. He had some notion of what was happening, but not how to stop it, if indeed that was possible. He didn’t even have any proof of what he’d discovered, and wondered if his employer would believe such a wild tale without it.

So he lingered to find some. The cult kept him so busy aiding in various jewel thefts that it would have been difficult to disappear in any case. But how he wanted to! From the first, he’d known the brothers were dangerous men, but at least it had been easy to dismiss their beliefs as mad delusions. He’d come to fear that the nightmarish tomorrow of their ambitions might truly come to pass unless he himself prevented it. At times he felt as if the responsibility would crush his mind into a lunacy as profound as theirs.

Since Gorstag had discovered who the wizard actually was, the worst moments were those he spent in Speaker’s company. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the cult leader would have absolutely no trouble reading an underling’s thoughts if it simply occurred to him to make the effort. In which case, he’d find it equally easy to destroy a spy a heartbeat later, or more likely, incapacitate him for interrogation and torture.

The day had started particularly bad, not because anything special had happened, but simply because Gorstag’s nerves were fraying fast. He’d been certain he was on the verge of making a slip and giving himself away. Then he’d learned Speaker had set forth on another journey. The mage seemed to like Lyrabar but spent only a fraction of his time there. He had affairs to manage in cult enclaves across Faerûn.

Gorstag decided his chance had come. He’d search Speaker’s quarters to see what he could find, and whether he turned up anything or not, flee the city to make his long-overdue report to his employer.

It seemed as good a plan as he was likely to hit upon, but when he reached Speaker’s chamber, he hesitated. As far as he could tell, the spacious crypt with the tunnel-vaulted ceiling harbored no threats, simply the ornately carved cherry desk, chairs, bookshelves, and tapestries the brothers had fetched down into the tunnels to furnish it. But as everybody knew, spellcasters liked to set magical snares to catch intruders. Gorstag might summon a devil or set himself on fire simply by stepping across the threshold.

But maybe not. Speaker was busy, and regarding himself as the wisest and noblest of leaders, clearly assumed his followers shared his opinion. It seemed likely he simply counted on their awe and devotion to protect his privacy.

In any case, Gorstag wasn’t making himself any safer or less scared by hovering at the entrance worrying about it. He took a deep breath, calming himself as Maestro Taegan had taught him, then he stepped through the basket arch.

Nothing happened. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned and peered about. The shelves were full of tomes, loose documents, and rolled-up sheets of parchment, so many the smell of old paper threatened to make him sneeze. He was going to need luck to find what he needed in a reasonable amount of time. He just hoped he’d recognize it when he saw it.

Then he spotted a volume with the flame-and-claws sigil of the cult stamped in gold leaf on the spine standing in the middle of a shelf. The sickly greenish light of the ever-burning torch in the wall sconce made it difficult to distinguish color, but the rich purple of the leather binding was unmistakable.

The book was the Tome of the Dragon, the compendium of arcane secrets and apocalyptic prophecies that had guided the conspiracy since its inception. Steal that—

And Gorstag realized, he would accomplish relatively little. The Harpers and their allies had waged war against the cult for centuries. Surely somebody had seized a copy of the Tome already. Besides, the spy had learned that several months back, when Speaker first revealed his current plan, it had come as a surprise even to Lyrabar’s Wearer of Purple. That plainly meant the book didn’t cover the scheme.

Gorstag had to keep searching. He turned his attention to the desk. If any of the papers littering the writing surface or stuffed into the cubbyholes was of critical importance, he was too thick to realize it. But one drawer, the top one on the left, was locked.

As he drew his main gauche, he thought again of magical traps, and the conjured blade of darkness that had, with a single stroke, erased the maid from existence. Refusing to let such reflections deter him, he worked the dagger into the crack between the drawer and the rest of the woodwork, then pried.

The action failed to bring any hellish spirits leaping forth, or to rot his flesh on the bone. The sturdy lock simply resisted him until he feared the parrying blade would snap or break loose from the hilt. Finally, though, the drawer lurched open.

He slid it all the way out. Inside was a battered brown leather folio. He turned back the cover and flipped through leaves covered in tiny script. Having looked on while Speaker scribbled a note or two, he recognized the wizard’s handwriting.

That had to be it. He started to pick it up, then heard a tiny rustle of cloth at his back. Instinct prompted him to fling himself sideways out of Speaker’s chair. As he slammed down on the cold stone floor, he saw the out-thrust rapier that had nearly pierced his back. Firvimdol was at the other end of it.

“Are you mad?” Gorstag said. “The Wearer of Purple sent me—”

“Liar!”

Firvimdol pounced after him and thrust. Gorstag rolled, and the point missed him to rasp against the floor.

“Traitor!”

Another stab.

“Unbeliever!”

Another.

Fortunately, the fat youth wasn’t agile. Gorstag managed to dodge every attack and eventually heave himself to his feet. His back was to the wall, and his main gauche was still on the desk where he’d set it down, but at least he had his rapier. He jerked it from the scabbard, put it in line, and Firvimdol hastily backed away from the threat.

That was bad. If the merchant’s son had kept on rushing forward, Gorstag could probably have spitted him. As it was, the spy thought he could still kill Firvimdol, but probably not before he called out for help.

“Calm down,” Gorstag panted. “I swear to you, the Wearer of Purple sent me here.”

“Do you think I’m an imbecile?” Firvimdol asked, his double-chinned face mottled and sweaty. “I guess you must, since I’m the one you picked to flatter and befriend, to persuade me to sponsor you in the brotherhood. But I’m not stupid! I saw how hard you worked to win the prophet’s trust, and something about it troubled me.”

“We all try to serve Speaker however we can,” said Gorstag. “You know that. It just irked you that he took a liking to me when I was only a neophyte. It made you jealous, and that affected your judgment.”

“Nonsense. I spotted you for a spy. I just couldn’t denounce you right away, not without proof, not when I’d vouched for you myself. How would that have looked? So I bided my time. When you didn’t show up for the ceremony tonight, I came searching to see if you were getting into mischief. And now I have you.”

“Maybe you do,” said the spy, “but have you really thought about what you’re doing? Your father’s rich. Everything the cult promises, you already have. It makes no sense for someone like you to conspire against the Crown.”

“My family is rich, and deserves to be, for it’s the merchants who bring prosperity to Impiltur. That’s why we ought to be the masters. Yet the old chivalry, the paladins and cavaliers, make the laws and turn up their noses at us, as if we were no better than the rabble. The brotherhood will change that.”

“Weeping Ilmater, man, you’d still have rulers set above you, even if the prophecies came true.”

“At least we’ll be first among human beings.”

“Not really, because it’s never going to happen. Every time the cult puts some grand scheme into motion, people like the knights step in and break it up.”

“It’s different this time. Don’t you see that?”

“I see it’s time for you to think about practicalities,” Gorstag said, “like how you yourself can survive the next few minutes. You fluffed your chance to murder me, and now I’ve got a rapier in my hand and I’m the better duelist. You can scream for help, and probably it will come, but not in time to keep me from killing you. If you want to live, you’ll have to creep quietly along with me while I make my escape. Once we reach the street, I’ll let you go.”

Firvimdol hesitated then said, “You … you wouldn’t dare harm me.”

“If you think that, you really are stupid. At this point, what do I have to lose? One thing’s for sure, I can’t afford to stand here arguing until somebody else happens by. So this is how it will be. I’m going to give you to the count of three to be sensible, and after that, I’ll kill you. Who knows, maybe I can drive my point into your heart before you even get off a yell, or maybe that wretched chanting will cover the noise. One … two …”

“All right!” Firvimdol yelped. “I surrender!”

“Throw away your sword and poniard,” Gorstag commanded.

The weapons clanked on the floor.

“Now go stand in that corner.”

Once he had Firvimdol where he wanted him, Gorstag grabbed and sheathed his main gauche, then stooped to collect the folio. It was big and bulky, and the papers were loose inside it. It was going to make an awkward burden, but—

He realized Firvimdol was whispering.

Gorstag jerked his head up just in time to see the cultist spin his hand through a complex figure like a wizard casting a spell. Only then did he recall that Speaker had alluded to teaching Firvimdol magic. Gorstag threw himself forward, intent on killing the pudgy youth before he could finish the incantation.

Too late.

Like a wave rearing from the surface of the sea, a pale luminescence shot up and raced across the floor. It smashed into Gorstag like a giant’s fist, bore him backward, and slammed him against a bookshelf before blinking out of existence. Jolted loose by the impact, volumes tumbled down around him. One banged him squarely on the head, and he fumbled his grip on the folio. It fell and bumped open, scattering the pages inside.

As Taegan had taught him, he refused to let the shock of being hit paralyze him. He charged once more.

Firvimdol jabbered words of power and stuck out his hand. A crackling tendril of white light leaped from his fingertips to Gorstag’s blade. The power burned down the length of the weapon into the spy’s hand. His whole body shuddered spastically.

Only for a moment, but that was all the time it took for Firvimdol to recover his own rapier. He lunged and thrust at his adversary’s chest. Off balance, Gorstag nonetheless managed a parry but didn’t trust himself to stand and fight. After taking two hurts in a matter of seconds, he needed a moment to gather his strength. He jumped backward, grabbed a chair, and threw it. It didn’t hit Firvimdol, but the pudgy rake had to dodge, and that kept him from chasing right after his foe.

Gorstag struggled to control his breathing, came on guard, and did his best to quell the fear shrilling through his mind. He told himself that Firvimdol was no wizard, not really. He’d simply mastered a few rudimentary spells and was surely incapable of casting many more before he ran out of power. He was no swordsman, either. That ought to mean Gorstag was still more than a match for him.

The problem was that the spy’s back ached fiercely, and something inside his torso throbbed every time he inhaled. His rapier trembled no matter how he struggled to hold it steady. Firvimdol’s magic had genuinely hurt him, impairing his ability to fight.

Maybe the fat youth knew it, too. Maybe that was why he was so confident he hadn’t seized the opportunity to run or cry for help. Or maybe it was just that his blood was up.

Either way, Firvimdol stood his ground, hitching from side to side and back and forth, looking for an opening. Gorstag decided to give him one. When Firvimdol faked a step to the right, then immediately hopped left, Gorstag pretended the clumsy deception had fooled him. He pivoted in the direction the cultist wanted, giving Firvimdol his flank.

Firvimdol charged. Gorstag whirled, spinning his sword to sweep his foe’s weapon out of line and riposte, until another spasm, perhaps a residual effect of Firvimdol’s miniature lightning bolt, shook him uncontrollably. It made him miss the parry.

Firvimdol’s point drove into Gorstag’s chest. Grinning, oblivious to the possibility that his foe might still pose a threat, the cultist yanked his rapier free and cocked it back for another thrust. That was when Gorstag’s own desperate attack rammed into Firvimdol’s torso.

Firvimdol gaped stupidly, then collapsed. Because Gorstag was still holding the blade buried in Firvimdol’s flesh, the cultist’s weight dragged the spy to his knees.

The abrupt drop made the crypt spin and darken, and Gorstag realized he was on the verge of passing out. He fought to cling to consciousness, and finally the feeling of faintness abated. Though that had the unfortunate consequence of intensifying the pain.

Gorstag couldn’t permit it to cripple him. He had to flee. Trying not to bleed on them, he gathered the leaves from the folio. It took time. The wretched papers had flown everywhere.

He tried to pull his rapier out of Firvimdol’s corpse, but it stuck fast. He planted his foot on the body, gripped the hilt with both hands, and it slid free with a nasty little sucking sound. Alas, the process proved so taxing as to convince him he no longer had the strength to wield a sword. He couldn’t bear to abandon it, however, and despite the handicap of shaking hands, managed to slip it back into its scabbard.

Was there any way to hide what he’d done? Gorstag couldn’t keep the cult from discovering Firvimdol’s body. He was too weak to move it. But maybe he could prevent their realizing he’d stolen the folio, at least for a while. He pushed the desk drawer shut, then grabbed the purple-bound copy of the Tome of the Dragon, leaving an obvious gap on the shelf. With luck, the brothers would assume he’d come to steal the sacred text and not investigate any further.

Time to flee. But where? His employer had charged him to tell no one of his mission. The cult had agents everywhere, perhaps even among the officers of the queen, and in any case, the Harpers kept their affairs a secret. Yet Gorstag had to seek help somewhere. Otherwise, he’d never make it out of town alive.

He smiled, for the answer was obvious. Maestro Taegan would succor him, if his numb legs could carry him that far.

They bore him to the stairs leading up to the tannery, anyway. Then the chanting ended in a ragged fashion, as over the course of a couple seconds the cultists fell silent. Someone had apparently burst in and interrupted them. Probably someone who’d discovered Firvimdol’s corpse.

In Lyrabar, a salle was more than a school for instruction in the science of fencing. It was a social club, where the duelists often lingered long after the practice was through, and the maestro presided over their revels as he had their training. For he had to prove himself the epitome of everything the city’s young hellions aspired to be, knowledgeable not merely about swordplay but also wine, gambling, clothes, horses, hawking, and venery. Moreover, he had to render his judgments on such matters with eloquence and wit. Otherwise, no matter how well he taught combat, his academy would go out of fashion, and his pupils would desert him.

Accordingly, Taegan Nightwind often found himself the center of attention from morning until late into the night. Finally, however, a moment arrived when one or another distraction—the whores, a drinking contest, or the snowball battle in the garden out back—had lured every one of the winged elf’s admirers away. He seized the opportunity to slip off to his office on the top floor, where another sort of work awaited him.

Corkaury Mindle was there too, sitting in a circle of lamplight at a worktable sized for halflings. Stooped and wizened, Corkaury was small even by the standards of his own diminutive race, which never prevented him from projecting an air of firm authority over the provosts, maids, cooks, and bawds who made up the rest of the staff.

“You should have gone home hours ago,” Taegan said. “Your family will be worried.”

“I knew you wanted to review the accounts,” Corkaury replied.

“I could have puzzled them out by myself.”

Corkaury made a derisive spitting sound.

Taegan chuckled and said, “I could, and you know it very well. You probably fear that if you give me an hour alone with the ledgers, I’ll realize you’re embezzling.”

“You’ve found me out.”

Taegan pulled one of his specially made chairs up to the table. When necessary, he could manage a human seat with impeccable grace, but he much preferred furniture crafted to provide room for his black-feathered pinions.

“Well,” he said, “let’s have at it, and try to get you out of here by midnight.”

As the crackling fire in the hearth burned lower and chill crept into the room, the avariel, as winged elves were called, and his assistant went over the entries line by line. Like every other aspect of city life, coin had been a mystery to Taegan when he’d first come to the human world. He’d made a point of learning all about it because that, too, was necessary if he was to make his way in the city. The alternative was to slink back to the dismal circumstances of his birth.

Eventually the discussion drifted down a familiar path.

“You realize,” Corkaury said, “Cormyrean brandy’s doubled in price since the troubles there.”

“Good. If the other maestros are too miserly to pour it, I look all the more munificent.”

“I suppose munificence is also the excuse for this yacht you’re having built.”

“Of course. I have to toss coin around to attract wealthy patrons.”

“But you yourself aren’t wealthy. The salle brings in plenty of gold, but it flows right out again, to service your debts and pay for each new extravagance …”

“Answer me this: So long as the coin keeps coming, will I stay afloat?”

The elderly halfling scowled and said, “Probably, barring disaster.”

“There you are then. You’re fretting over mist and dew-drops.”

“If you say so,” said Corkaury. “Let’s at least make sure we take in as much gold as possible. Some of the students are behind on their fees.”

“They always are. The names, if you would be so kind.”

“Odoth Amblecrown.”

“He’s just absentminded,” said the maestro. “He’ll ante up if I drop him a hint, provided it’s not too subtle.”

“Nalian Fisher.”

“Bugger. His family’s too prominent, and he’s too much of a brat. If we squeeze him, he’ll leave in a snit and take his sycophants—who do pay—with him. Let it go for now.”

“Gorstag Helder.”

“Still?” Taegan asked. “Chuck him out.”

“I’ll tell the porter not to admit him.”

Taegan arched an eyebrow. He’d cultivated that particular mannerism, like many of his gestures, to make himself over into a perfect Impilturan rake.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“What else is there?” Corkaury replied.

“On previous occasions, you had more to say.”

“True. I pleaded poverty on Goodman Helder’s behalf, whereupon you grudgingly granted him an extension. I don’t feel like covering the same ground again. If he really can’t afford to live like a swell, with fencing lessons, fancy clothes, and all the rest of it, that’s his problem. Let him take up a trade like everybody else.”

“Oh, to the Abyss with it,” said Taegan, “give him another month. Maybe Tymora will blow on his dice.”

The corners of Corkaury’s mouth quirked upward.

“Why the smirk?” Taegan asked.

“I just wanted you to acknowledge that actually, we keep Helder on the rolls because you’re fond of him. As you ought to be. He idolizes you.”

“All the sheep idolize me. That’s what enables me to shear them. Are we done?”

“I suppose.”

“Then take a sedan chair home, and don’t feel you have to scurry back at the crack of dawn. Stay in bed, and wake Olpara in the way a wench likes best.”

“I’ll thank you not to refer to my wife as a wench,” said the halfling. “Anyway, at her age, she likes to wake to griddle-cakes smothered in butter and cherry syrup.”

“Spare me the lurid details.”

“Are you going to turn in?”

“No,” Taegan answered simply. Avariels didn’t sleep, and though they had their own sort of rest, a trance-like meditation, they only needed about four hours a night. “I have an itch to get out of this place of a while. I believe I’ll find out what Selûne and the Sea of Night are doing.”

With his wings protruding in the back, an avariel couldn’t wear ordinary cloaks, but Taegan possessed a number of specially tailored tabards that went a long way toward staving off the chill. He opened an armoire, selected a deep blue velvet outer garment trimmed with scarlet satin, and pulled it on. Thus protected, he strode to the casement with its panes of pebbled, milky glass, threw it open, and sprang out into the night. His wings spread and hammered up and down, swiftly carrying him above the level of the gabled rooftops. After a time, they caught an updraft that hurled him higher still, until he could gaze down on the entirety of Lyrabar at once.

Glittering with enough lights to rival the starry sky above, Queen Sambryl’s capital sprawled along the shore for nearly a mile. Supposedly it was the largest city for hundreds of miles. Certainly it was the greatest Taegan had ever seen, and the sight of it stretched out beneath him could inspire a variety of emotions, depending on his mood. Often he felt wonder, joy, and gratitude that he had come to dwell here. Other times, though he would never have admitted it to another, Lyrabar made him feel ashamed and unworthy of its grandeur.

Fortunately, the humans whose city it truly was rarely behaved as if he didn’t belong. Elves of any sort were a rarity in Impiltur and the surrounding lands. Avariels were virtually unheard of, and because of their wings, slender frames, porcelain skin, fine-boned features, and large, luminous eyes, many folk in Lyrabar regarded them as marvelous and exotic. Taegan had recognized that fascination early on and turned it to his advantage. It had played a considerable part in making him one of the most popular masters-of-arms in town.

Tonight, the spectacle of the benighted port, with its host of warships and merchant vessels either moored at the piers or sitting at anchor in the harbor, lifted his spirits and made him want to play. He climbed and plummeted, swooped through the boulevards and alleys, testing his ability to level out of a dive or make a turn at the last possible instant. It was exhilarating, and if people saw, so much the better. The gossip would bring in new students.

Avariels weren’t like dwarves or goblinkin, able to see in the utter absence of light. But their vision was sharper than that of men. Midway through another ascent, Taegan noticed the lanky man weaving and stumbling his way across a plaza at the intersection of five avenues. It was obvious he was hurt and just as clear that the shadowy figures tailing him intended to finish him off. He was probably leaving a trail of blood spatters for them to follow.

It was unfortunate, but none of Taegan’s business. He resolved to fly elsewhere and leave the distasteful scene behind. Then the human lifted his face as if praying to Selûne to save him. It was Gorstag, his long, narrow countenance pale as the moon herself.

Curse you, Taegan thought. I already did you one favor tonight, isn’t that enough?

He furled his wings and dropped like a stone. As a result, he landed hard, but not hard enough to hurt himself. Up close, Gorstag reeked of blood. He gave Taegan a dazed smile.

“I was coming to find you,” the student said.

“Lucky me,” the maestro grumbled. “Get down and stay there.”

Taegan shoved Gorstag down into the dirty, much-trodden snow to make a smaller target. It was the only way. An adult human was too heavy to fly to safety.

The maestro pivoted, whipped his rapier from its scabbard, and reviewed the spells he currently carried ready for the casting in his memory. Most of Lyrabar knew him only as a duelist, for the simple use of weapons was the only art he imparted to his pupils. It was all he had to teach that non-elves seemed capable of learning. But during his youth, he’d also mastered bladesong, a technique for combining swordplay and magic to lethal effect, and he suspected he was going to need it very soon.

The question was, which spell to cast first in the final moments before Gorstag’s hunters rushed into the plaza. Taegan decided to armor himself specifically against ranged attacks. He trusted his fencing to protect him from foes bold enough to advance within reach of his rapier, but even the greatest swordsman could fall prey to enemies who kept their distance and shot him full of arrows.

He rattled off the incantation, swept a scrap of turtle shell through the proper pass, and the first two of his foes darted into plain view. He smiled, because he’d guessed right. They carried crossbows. They faltered for an instant, surprised to see him waiting there, then lifted the weapons. They knew how to use them, too. Despite their excitement, they took a moment to aim. Then the crossbows clacked, and the quarrels leaped forth.

One shaft missed. The other struck Taegan in the chest, only to snap in two without penetrating. It had, however, chipped away at the magic. A few more such impacts and the protection would be gone. It was a good reason not to give his attackers a chance to ready the crossbows for a second volley.

Taegan charged them, his wings beating, augmenting the strength of his legs to close the distance in several prodigious bounds. His opponents tossed away the crossbows and reached for their blades. He killed the curly-bearded one on the right before his falchion cleared the scabbard. The other, a thin man in a high-crowned hat, rushed in stabbing with a dirk in either hand. The avariel saw that he wouldn’t quite have time to yank the rapier free and swing it around to present the point. So he sidestepped, and as the knife-fighter blundered past, bashed him in the head with the heavy steel pommel. The human lurched off balance. Taegan thrust his sword into his back.

That was two foes down, but Taegan had glimpsed more. He turned to meet the next ones, and a nauseating stench assailed him as withered, gray-faced figures shuffled out of the dark. He cursed in surprise. He’d assumed Gorstag had simply run afoul of footpads or come out the loser in a brawl. Yet that wouldn’t explain someone setting zombies on his track. It was astonishing that a spellcaster would even dare to create undead in Lyrabar, crawling with paladins and priests of the gods of light as it was.

Taegan had never fought zombies, but he had some notion of their weaknesses and capabilities, They were slow and clumsy, but strong, fearless, and difficult to slay. The best way to deal with them would be to keep maneuvering so that only one or at the most two could come at him at a time. And make his rapier a more potent weapon, to let the animating force out of the walking cadavers that much more quickly.

He circled, sidestepped, advanced, retreated, and dodged, thrust, counterattacked, parried, and riposted. Meanwhile, he recited a rhyme and swept his off hand through a pass, managing the swordplay and spellcasting simultaneously as only a bladesinger could. At the conclusion of the incantation, he tossed a pinch of powdered lime and coal dust onto his blade. Magic groaned through the air, and for an instant, the weapon flared as if white hot.

He made faster progress after that. Every hit plunged the rapier deep into a zombie’s body, and a single such attack generally sufficed to dispatch it. He disposed of a woman’s corpse with the nose and jaw all black and mushy, a broad-shouldered husk swinging a battle-axe, and a skinny old fellow’s cadaver with bits of bare bone peeking through its flaking skin. Then another living man intent on creeping in on his flank.

Taegan grinned. Only a fool risked his life except for profit—which made him a fool at that particular moment—but even so, no one could deny the satisfaction of mastering an adversary or better still a pack of them. For a few seconds, the fight seemed an amusing game, then the situation altered once again.

A human might not have noticed, but a flying warrior learned to keep track of what was happening above and below him, not just in front and behind, even when he himself was battling on the ground. Thus, Taegan’s ears caught the whisper of wings. Glancing upward, he saw a huge, dragonlike silhouette, the wings fifty feet from tip to tip, with a crooked stinger at the end of its long, skinny tail and a rider straddling its back. The beast was swooping at Gorstag, who held his rapier aloft in both trembling hands in a pathetic effort at self-defense.

A wyvern lacked the intelligence, sorcery, and breath weapon of a true dragon. Yet even so, the reptile was far more formidable than any of Taegan’s other foes, and he was accordingly surprised it hadn’t revealed itself before. But perhaps the rider was the sort of leader who’d rather send dozens of underlings to their destruction than face danger unnecessarily himself. In any case, since the bastard assumed his minions had the bladesinger tied up, he was racing to finish off the man he actually wanted to kill.

Taegan spun and wings beating, leaped into the air. A blade bit into his calf. He snarled against the shock, flew onward, and saw he couldn’t intercept the wyvern in time, not by flying anyway. He rattled off words of power.

Transported instantly through the intervening distance, he was directly in the plummeting reptile’s path. He drove his rapier into its scaly chest, then tried to dodge out of its way. He was an instant too slow, and the wyvern slammed into him.

The collision stunned him, and he dropped tumbling toward the snowy cobbles waiting to smash his bones. Somehow he shook off the daze and struggled to beat his wings. To his relief, they still worked. The impact must not have broken any critically important bones. As he leveled off, then climbed, he peered about to see how the wyvern was faring.

The unexpected injury had caused it to veer off short of rending Gorstag with its talons, but that was the only good news. Despite the flower of fresh gore blooming on its breast, it was still airborne, its master still perched atop its back. It wheeled toward Taegan, leathery wings snapping and rattling, gaining altitude all the while. The rider, clad in a dark robe, shoulder cape, and cowl, swept a staff through mystic passes. The shaft was made of jet-black wood, while the silver knob on top was shaped like a skull.

Essentially, it was the same situation Taegan had already faced with the crossbowmen. He had no intention of hanging back while the spellcaster hurled one curse after another. Rather, he meant to close with the immense two-legged reptile and send it and its rider plunging to earth as soon as possible. Wings pounding and rapier extended like a lance, he streaked toward it.

Even as he flew his fastest, bladesong enabled him to weave another defensive enchantment. For an instant, the words of power sent rainbows rippling through the air around him. The subtle illusion he’d called into being would make him look as if he was a foot or two away from his actual position. It ought to hinder the wyvern’s efforts to rip him to shreds. Whether it would hamper the rider’s magic depended on which particular spell the whoreson chose to cast.

A clawed, shadowy, and disembodied hand erupted from the silver skull and streaked at Taegan. He veered, dodging. The hand raked at empty air, then withered out of existence.

So far, so good, but he might not be as lucky next time. He had to get into sword range but realized that, his shield of illusion notwithstanding, it would be suicide to approach the wyvern at any but the proper attitude. So he zigzagged back and forth, making the reptile struggle to match him shift for shift. The dragonlike brutes could fly faster than avariels but were less agile in the air.

Even so, he’d nearly closed with it before he maneuvered it into the proper posture. He put on a final burst of speed and fetched up under its belly, where he grabbed a loose handful of scaly hide to anchor himself in place. While he clung there, it would have difficulty twisting its neck far enough around to snap at him or its tail to sting. The man perched on its back wouldn’t be able to target him at all.

Still, his position could scarcely have been more perilous. The huge, three-taloned feet scrabbled at him. The great jaws with the slit-pupiled eyes glaring rage behind them bit repeatedly, and the crooked, venomous stinger thrust and thrust. The wyvern thrashed to shake him loose. Meanwhile he struggled to hang on, twist out of the way of each new attack, and drive the rapier home over and over again.

At last the reptile shuddered and rolled over. It was falling, and Taegan had to get clear or it would carry him to the ground along with it. He leaped away from it, wings pounding, and either by dint of a final murderous effort or simply because the wyvern was convulsing in its death throes, the stinger leaped directly at him. He twisted away from it. The bony point came close enough to tear a feather or two from his left pinion but failed to pierce flesh or pump poison into his veins.

After that, the reptile was too far away to threaten him. The rider shrieked, and for a moment, Taegan took a cold satisfaction in the doomed man’s terror. Then he glanced down and saw the men and zombies closing in on Gorstag. Ilmater’s wounds, was this fight never going to end? He dived.

Luckily, when the wyvern crashed down with an earth-shaking jolt, it startled the ordinary humans, freezing them in their tracks. The undead took no notice, but they were lurching along more slowly than their living counterparts. Thus Taegan reached the ground in time to interpose himself between Gorstag and his would-be assassins. He drove his rapier into a zombie’s face and out the back of its head, jerked the weapon free, deflected a short sword with a thrust in opposition, and pierced his attacker’s solar plexus. An instant later, a mace whipped at his head. He ducked and extended simultaneously, and another animate corpse went down.

The surviving humans bolted, leaving the last two zombies behind to cover their retreat. Taegan destroyed the creatures, took a wary look around to check for other dangers, then crouched over Gorstag.

“You’ll be all right now,” the maestro said.

Gorstag shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” the student murmured.

Actually, Taegan marked the precise location of his pupil’s wound, and he didn’t think so, either.

Nonetheless, he insisted, “We’ll find a priest to mend you.”

“No time. Just listen.”

Gorstag fumbled at his side. After a moment, Taegan realized the wounded man was trying to produce something from inside his blood-soaked cloak but was too weak to bring it forth.

The elf folded back the cape to reveal a book with an odd sigil stamped on the spine and a folio stuffed with loose pages.

“What are these?”

“The tome,” said Gorstag, “and Speaker’s notes.”

“What speaker?”

Gorstag made a little rhythmic wheezing sound. It took Taegan a second to realize it was laughter.

“You’re right,” said the dying student. “I kept calling him Speaker even after I found out. It scared me to use his real name, even in my private thoughts. But you need to know. It’s Sammaster.”

Taegan wondered if his student was slipping into delirium. Sammaster was a villain in old stories. Perhaps such a human had really lived once upon a time, but even if so, he was surely dust.

“I don’t understand” the maestro said. “Has some knave taken to calling himself by the monster’s name?”

“No,” Gorstag replied. “He came back. He’s leading the cult again, and this time the prophecies are going to come true. He’s found the way to make them all do what he wants.”

Taegan felt lost. He dimly recalled that Sammaster had founded a secret society known as the Cult of the Dragon, which by some accounts still existed, but beyond that, he could make little of what Gorstag was straining to tell him.

“Make who do what he wants?”

“It’s why we had to steal all the gems,” Gorstag replied.

“That was you?”

“With the others. I had to, to keep them from suspecting I was a spy.” He panted out his ghastly crippled laugh. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth, but he continued, “Not a good spy, though. They caught me in the end. I thought I could pull it off. Thought I’d finally found a way to make something of myself, but … Never mind. It’s not important anymore. Keep the notes safe until the Harpers come for them. They’ll find you. Somehow. Don’t trust anybody else. Even a paladin. Even the queen.”

“If the folio’s supposed to pass to someone else, tell me how to find him.”

Gorstag didn’t answer, simply stared up at the heavens. Gazing after his ascending soul, perhaps.

At that moment, had it lain in his power, Taegan might have consigned the young idiot’s spirit to the infernal realms instead. It was true, the avariel encouraged his students to revere him as a mentor and prize him as a boon companion. It was good for business. But that didn’t mean he was keen to fulfill their perilous, inconvenient dying requests. He most emphatically was not.

“Curse you,” he said, “you didn’t understand. I only liked you in a casual sort of way, and I certainly don’t care about your wretched batch of papers. You should have sought the aid of a knight. I’m just an avariel.”

Gorstag had nothing to say to that either.

Taegan sighed, gathered up the book and folio, and his leg gave him a twinge. Thus reminded of the gash he’d received, he checked it and was relieved to find it shallow.

He decided to heed Gorstag’s instructions in one regard anyway. He wouldn’t trust paladins or any of the other royal officers likely to discover him if he lingered there. He’d rather not try to justify his slaughter of several humans. The carcasses of the wyvern and zombies might serve to vindicate him, but it was by no means a certainty, not when the authorities held his profession in such disdain. He spread his wings and soared upward.

As he fled toward the salle, he wondered if he could find a way to turn the burden Gorstag had foisted upon him into coin. The possibility blunted his resentment, but only a little.